


Lemon

by orphan_account



Series: Brittle Blossoms [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: (past) - Freeform, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Genderqueer Character, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mpreg, Omega Verse, Sickfic, Suicidal Thoughts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-30
Updated: 2014-01-30
Packaged: 2018-01-10 14:26:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,466
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1160739
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>prompt was for fawnlock hurt/comfort; writinginmargins mentioned having liked <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/works/845794/chapters/1615320">brittle blossoms</a> and kindly okay’d me writing in that ‘verse for the prompt fill. so i did. writinginmargins, i hope you enjoy. thank you so much for your patience!</p>
    </blockquote>





	Lemon

**Author's Note:**

  * For [hedgewilde](https://archiveofourown.org/users/hedgewilde/gifts).



> prompt was for fawnlock hurt/comfort; writinginmargins mentioned having liked [brittle blossoms](http://archiveofourown.org/works/845794/chapters/1615320) and kindly okay’d me writing in that ‘verse for the prompt fill. so i did. writinginmargins, i hope you enjoy. thank you so much for your patience!

Sherlock’s side of the bed is empty, the sheets cool under John’s palm.

John blinks. Struggles into his robe. Shuffles into the living room, where Sherlock stretches along the sofa, one arm draped over his eyes and a pile of discarded tissues at his side.

That’s what woke John, then. Not gunshots, or cars backfiring, or flasks exploding over flame: sneezes.

The fireplace mantle’s cold beneath John’s robe as he sits, switches on the gas, and moves the glass aside to let in the heat. “You’re a hell of an alarm clock when you’re sick, you know that?”

Sherlock groans. “I’m not sick. I’m dying.”

“No, you’re not. You have a cold.”

“I absolutely do not. I am  _dying_.” The sofa creaks as Sherlock flops onto his side, curls into a ball, and glares at John. His ears are flat with anger. “Anyway, what kind of a doctor issues a diagnosis without so much as glancing at the patient? Could this be the beginning of the ‘pregnancy brain’ the books go on about?”

 _Breathe_ , Ella’s voice reminds him.  _Count to ten_. “No, it really couldn’t. How’s your throat?”

“Agony.”

“Head?”

“Imploding.”

“Nose?”

“Before or after our horrible tissues scraped the skin off?”

 _Breathe_. “And you’re sneezing loud enough to wake me up. Right. Think I know what’s wrong with you, Sherlock.”

Sherlock sits up and coughs into his elbow. “Well? Spit it out, don’t make me wait.”

“You have,” John says, over-emphasising every sound and very much forgetting to breathe, “a cold. I recommend fluids, rest, and not pissing off your pregnant bond-mate.”

Sherlock, predictably, rolls his eyes. “Shouldn’t you recommend a treatment to which I have some hope of adhering?”

“Oh, you’ll adhere to this one.” John stands with a grunt and walks into the kitchen, rubbing rheum from his eyes.

“I certainly will not. I’m not thirsty, I have to do the morning rounds, and as for not pissing you off—”

“Lie down and shut up.” John puts the kettle on and bangs a mug on the counter. “You can miss a day of rounds. Really. I’m going to bring you herbal tea, and you’re going to drink it.”

Sherlock sulks in as the kettle starts to sputter. He crosses his arms and leans against the doorframe. “With honey in?”

“And lemon.”

“I don’t take lemon.”

John squeezes a lemon slice over Sherlock’s mug. “You do today.”

“If you insist.”

“Oh,  _now_  you trust me.” Steam rises from the water as John pours it over the bag. The spoon clinks against the sides of the mug as he stirs in honey.

“John.”

There’s something raw in Sherlock’s voice, something that feels like a tug in John’s chest. “Yeah?”

“I’ve never…” Sherlock speaks to the floor. “There were so many doctors. When I—when I changed. I hated it. Hated them.”

 _Oh._  “Sherlock—”

“I never let anyone take care of me when I was sick, after that. Not my parents, not Mycroft, not even Mrs. Hudson. I never wanted to be treated like a—like a specimen, a disease, ever again. But even when I’m alone, being sick…”

John brushes curls from Sherlock’s clammy forehead; Sherlock shakes as John’s arms enclose him. “Being sick brings it back. That time.”

_Those feelings._

“Invariably.”

“Right.” John works his left hand into the thick winter fur on Sherlock’s chest and strokes. “So. Taking care of you when you’re sick. Would you—would you let me try? Just for today.”

Sherlock sighs. Rests his forehead against John’s.

Nods.

“Good. That’s—that’s good. Drink your tea. I’ll have something figured out by the time you’re done.” John brushes his fingers across Sherlock’s shoulder as he brings his hand down and walks away.

*

By the time John coaxes Sherlock into the shower with him, there’s a pot of barley soup simmering on the stove, a nest of pillows and blankets piled on the sofa, and a stack of DVDs leaning next to the television.

“For after,” John explains, setting the showerhead so that the spray lands on the heated bench. “It’ll feel nicer when you’re clean.”

Sherlock shuts the glass door and wrinkles his nose. “This is ludicrous. I’m perfectly capable of washing myself, sick or not.”

“Yeah, got that, thanks, but this isn’t about ‘capable.’” John pats the bench and, when Sherlock sits, kneels on a rolled-up towel with a cloth and a bottle of body wash. “It’s about… just, shut up, all right? You’ll see.”

“John.” Sherlock raises an eyebrow as John settles himself between Sherlock’s legs. “Much as I appreciate your talents in this area, I’m not exactly in the mood.”

John lifts Sherlock’s right foot, sets it in his lap, and pointedly cleans between Sherlock’s long toes. “This isn’t about sex, either. Trust me, okay?”

Sherlock stares, and grunts, and rests his head against the wall behind him as he closes his eyes.

“That’s a ‘yes’, I take it,” John mutters, his thumbs working along Sherlock’s arch. The soles of his feet are hard and calloused.

A hum. “Obviously.”

John takes his time massaging Sherlock’s feet, his calves, his quads, enjoying the warmth of the water and the earthy scent of the gel. He runs the cloth over Sherlock’s skin and works soap into Sherlock’s fur; Sherlock stands so that John can wash his back and tail. When he gets to Sherlock’s face, John rubs circles over his temples and sinuses, around the cartilage at the base of his ears. Sherlock’s eyelids flutter as John shampoos his hair, his fingers pushing rhythmically across Sherlock’s scalp.

“Done,” John says as he takes the showerhead from the wall and rinses Sherlock clean. “You breathing any better now? The steam usually helps.”

John turns the water off, and Sherlock doesn’t answer; John sits next to Sherlock, and Sherlock doesn’t answer; John rests an arm around Sherlock’s shoulders, and Sherlock chokes, buries his face against the scent gland in the crook of John’s neck, and shakes, silent.

“Sherlock. Jesus. What are—do you need a minute?”

Sherlock shakes his head and lays a palm beneath John’s navel.

“Okay. Just… I didn’t think you’d be crying at this point, is all.” John rocks him, a little. Grazes his fingers over the back of Sherlock’s hand. “It’s all right. Got that? You’re safe.”

_And not a specimen, or a disease, or too wild to be loved._

_Christ._

Sherlock takes a deep breath, his nose close to John’s skin, and kisses John’s shoulder. “Of course I’m safe.” His voice is low and ragged. “I’m with you.”

John swallows and kisses Sherlock’s forehead. “Soup?”

Sherlock stands and swings open the shower door, tossing John a towel and taking one for himself. He sniffles. “Soup. And blankets. And this show you keep telling me about, even though you can’t remember the main character’s name.”

“No, I  _do_  remember. The show is actually called ‘Doctor Who,’ and that’s not his name, it’s just—”

“Shh.” Sherlock waves an irritated hand in the air. “I want to be surprised.”

*

“This isn’t ‘surprising,'” Sherlock gripes as the first episode ends and he sets his empty bowl next to John’s on the end table, “this is  _ridiculous_.”

John shifts under the blankets so that Sherlock has room to curl beneath John’s arm. “Mmm. Should I turn it off, then?”

“Of course not. Don’t be dramatic.” Before John can answer, Sherlock adds, “Would you pass me the tissues? My nose is melting down my face.”

Sherlock tries to keep his expression blank, but a twinkle creeps into his eyes, wrinkles form at the corners of his smile, and, by the time John hands him the box of tissues, Sherlock laughs outright.

“You complete pain in the arse,” John grins. When Sherlock finishes with the tissues, John pulls him close. “Remind me why I let you bond with me, much less knock me up?”

“Because before me, you wanted to die.” John makes a small, involuntary sound; Sherlock scrambles upright, sending the blankets to the floor, and kneels on the sofa as he turns to face John. His tail curls close to his body, his ears twitch: distress signals. “John, I’m sorry, that was—that was horrible, please don’t—”

John holds up a hand to silence him and pulls the blankets onto the sofa. He gestures for Sherlock to lie down with him and, when Sherlock does, draws the blankets over them both.

“It’s fine, Sherlock. Really.” John strokes Sherlock’s ears from base to tip and nuzzles the top of Sherlock’s head; slowly, Sherlock relaxes in his arms. “It’s horrible, yeah. And it’s true.”

Sherlock squeezes John’s free hand and rubs his foot along John’s shin. The closeness of their bodies feels warm. Safe. “Another episode?”

“Yeah.” John picks up the remote and smiles his affection when Sherlock takes it from him. “Let’s.”


End file.
